


One Feather Bed

by Petyrs



Series: Birds of a Feather [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr Baelish is not a man to make the same mistake twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Feather Bed

     What difference could it possibly make, she wondered, so long as the refusal stood firm? A need for stealth and secrecy might be appreciated, though the lack of a second feather bed trod the line between caution and  _deliberation_. “It is not  _proper_ , my lord; I should prefer to take a bench upon the deck.” Were there a modicum of decency to the man, such an alternative would have been offered for  _his_ sleeping arrangements, yet Baelish remained irritatingly oblivious to the choice. Deliver her from the capital he may have, an act ever earning him the girl’s gratitude, yet it did not extend her patience to an uncouth sharing of  _beds_.

     A smug smile and hooded gaze only heralded another shaking of his brow, refusing the girl’s  _parsed_  solution. “My  _lady_ , you know that I cannot allow.” Brocade whispered, however, as the man turned to curl ring-laden fingers about the door standing yet ajar to the damp, narrow passage below deck. “But unless you desire to slumber in that fine gown,” he added, chin turned over a shoulder as beryl traversed the lilac finery from hem to collar, “I shall leave you to your changing.” With a final flick of the eye towards a chest bursting with garments, Petyr Baelish stepped into the hall, shutting the door with a firm tug behind him. Sansa could only stare, dumbfounded, at the wake of  _presumption_  rippling softly across the cabin.

     For a long moment, no motion was made to follow the lord’s directive; perhaps if he returned to find her still in the finery of Joffrey’s wedding, he would relent and seek out another shelter for the night. Perhaps he would  _remain_ , forcing her to instead slip from gown to shift with a company initially forgone. She could turn him away just as forcefully in a dressing gown, whose appearance might even work to sway his opinion towards the inappropriateness of broached arrangements.

     Sansa yielded. His return was inevitable; best to face it with as much command as could be mustered. Fingers numbed by cold and shock alike fumbled in knotted cord along her spine, unlacing and unpinning her gown to fold it on the narrow palette. Would they burn it, tear it to shreds, toss it out to sea upon the morrow? Any guest at the festivities would know what the Stark girl wore in her seat at the high table - that dress could never be seen again, beautiful though it was. It took some time to undress, trepidation at his early return inhibiting the removal of a garment already overcomplicated for the occasion. At last, however, the silk crumpled about her feet, soon joined with a relieved sigh by tightly bound corset, stockings, and slippers. Clad in only her shift, Sansa turned to the trunk, grateful upon opening the oaken chest to find a pair of nightgowns neatly folded beside a robe of simple brocade atop a deeper stack of clothes. Swiftly, before he could chance to beg entry, the ivory shift was pulled free and tossed aside in favor of the heavier garment, quickly covered further with a belting of silvery dressing gown.

     Baelish's knock came as she folded the final stocking, placing the square bundle beside its mate on the closed trunk. "I do hope you found everything to your satisfaction, my lady." Grey-green lingered where folded neckline sagged, providing a view of the lowly dipping border of her nightdress. "It was my utmost wish you be comfortable, regardless of how brief the voyage might prove."  _Then allow me mine own bed_ , she nearly snapped, instead releasing a juddering sigh as she turned and seated herself upon the narrow bunk. "They are very fine, my lord, and well-fitted. I ----- I cannot repay this generosity." Petyr tutted, stepping closer until thumb and index of one hand extended to thoughtfully tweeze at the silken underthing. "They are plain, Sansa. Far plainer than what the queen so  _thoughtfully_  bestowed for her son's wedding." He glanced aside, stare a slow, measured drag from ankles to her own Tully blue. "But they will serve."

Silence filled their little cabin afterwards, Sansa awaiting a new maneuver, Baelish amusedly eyeing the sole bed as if expecting an  _invitation_. One which never came, the girl determinedly staring towards the floor between them. At last, his breath hitched and the lord spoke. "Did your husband share your bed fully clothed, my lady?" Sansa shook her head at the ground. "No, he --- he took to bedgowns, after a time." The news was met, it seemed, with grave disappointment, Petyr's brows drawing together as his head began a slow shake. "Alas, I have never taken to them myself." He continued on amiably, despite her growing look of quiet horror. "But you needn't fret, a man can rest quite comfortably, removing only naught but his boots and doublet. Just as you with your gowns, it will serve for a short time," Petyr added with a tense smile.

     "You might sleep however you please, if only -- " Renewed pleas only sparked the man's impatience, brows twitching up irritably before the thought could be completed. "No other place remains, my dear, and I believe we are both above sleeping on the benches of a merchant ship." Exhausted, frustrated beyond her imaginings at the nonsensical stubbornness before her, Sansa turned in a furious whirl to her side, burrowing at the far edge of the feather sleeping palette against the sloping wall. A chuckle sounded out behind her, soon followed by the rustling of numerous clasps and the whisper of laces through their eyelets. Two thuds announced the shedding of Baelish's shoes, a heavy flapping the removal and folding of fine doublet. It was not long before the mattress bowed beneath the weight of a second party, the man seating himself at its edge with a relieved groan.

     "Are you chilled, my lady?" he queried to the open room. "Do you require another fur?" Sansa's muttered refusal, swallowed by downy pillow, was met in kind with his rising up and crossing the room a second time. One breath snuffed out a lone taper by the cabin door, enveloping the room in inky dark. Silk whispered somewhere behind her - could her gown have slipped from its perch? A few moments later he was beside her again, swinging his legs up onto the mattress and stretching indulgently beneath the furs along his narrow allotment of space.

     Sansa wriggled closer to the wall, wood biting into her knees.  _He cannot even do me the courtesy of sleeping above the blankets_ , she thought bitterly.  _At least then I might pretend towards some semblance of privacy_. " _Sansa_." The girl flinched at the touch to her arm, until realizing it came through the layers of pelts and wool pulled close. "You are  _safe_ ," Baelish murmured.  _From the Lannisters...or from you?_  "And your sleep will be unpleasant curled so tightly; there is room enough for the both of us." His palm lingered, barely pushing her towards the center of the palette. Though her legs unwound, toes brushing the far end of the bunk she remained firmly angled towards the unassuming planks before her. Sighing heavily, Petyr released her. "Very well. Pleasant dreams, my lady." Nothing more came from his lips but shallow, steady breath, soon deepening to the rhythm of sleep Sansa knew from the brief time with her husband. It took some time after that for the line of her shoulders to relax, her neck to stretch, and her body to at last settle into the safest expanse of bed. Lulled by the lapping waves about them, the Stark girl drifted away from the horrors of the city and into unconsciousness.

     Nothing existed to mark the passage of time. Her last memory was of the dark and her first sight upon waking was that same void bearing heavily on strained eyes. Beside Sansa -  _atop Sansa_  - her lordly bedmate still slumbered. Whether it was a deliberate advance or an unfortunate shuffling in his dreams, Petyr Baelish had rolled to the same flank as she, an arm flung nonchalantly over fur-encased stomach. Beneath the confluence of linens, an obviously  _bare_  chest pressed warmly to her back. For several beats of her heart Sansa lay still, more tempted to surrender to a soft embrace -  _any_  embrace - than it pleased her to admit. Then she rustled gently, willing to subscribe to the farce of an accident so long as Baelish feigned waking and returned to himself.

     Rather than cooperate, however, the man's arm wound tighter about her middle, fingers curling between her waist and the bed, as his nose nestled in cascading waves behind her neck. "Petyr." Sansa wriggled again, one hand leaving the warmth of the blankets to push back on the lump she assumed to be his hip. " _Petyr!_ "  _He could not be sleeping **that** soundly_. Nor was he, stirring with a grunt and all the while remaining close. His pelvis tilted away from the furrow it had settled in, brushing against her back an entirely  _different_  sort of appendage. Aghast, for even a maid knew what lay between a man's legs, Sansa abandoned all polite pretense and began to wrestle away from a grip rapidly turning into a vise.

     "You'll wake the entire ship, sweetling," he groused, though she had done no more than hiss his name. "Myself with them." What the man found amusing, Sansa most decidedly did not, yet for all her efforts they merely tangled closer together until his length was pressed firmly against her bottom, cheek abrading roughly over hers. A lover's embrace, were she  _willing_. "Petyr,  _please_." A note of fear threaded into what was intended as forceful command, struggle replaced with a stiffened refusal to mold against the lithe form along her spine. " _Please_." At that second plea his hold relaxed, only so much as to slip curious fingers beneath the furs to resume their hold along the belted gown still in place. "Do you truly think me capable of causing you harm?" Petyr asked as though deeply wounded. Perhaps, she reflected, he was.

     In reply she only tilted away from the obscene bulge behind laced breeches; if that could be done away with, a clarity of thought could be restored with the removal of her most immediate fear. The mob. Joffrey. Even Tyrion by rights could have taken her, though chivalry prevailed long enough for her flight. " _Stop_." His fingers dug through the silk and satin of her clothes, forcing her hips to still. "I would  _never_  spoil something so precious," Petyr murmured, mouth an open press below her ear. "No matter the  _temptation_." The tip of wetted tongue flashed out along his lips, dampening them before they moved in soft plods away from the corner of her jaw. Sansa's stomach flopped; he made no other demands beyond stillness, grip relaxing, breath slow, groin unmoving. At her chin Petyr retraced his path back up her throat, thumb brushing steadily over the jut of hip on which it rested.  _It felt good_ , the seemingly unhurried attentions, the lackadaisical offering of pleasure without accompanying search. Only when his fingers began to worry at the knot below her waist did Sansa's protests, swallowed by deepening inhalations, resume.

     "S _top_." A hand shuffled through the furs to bracelet his wrist. "Please." Pointer finger extended, brushing over silk-covered curls. "Please,  _Sansa_. Please let me  _give you this_."  _Give me? Men only take. All they know is thievery and brutishness; no matter their manners, they are all the same beneath. You give me **nothing**_. Her mouth parted to say as much aloud, to threaten a shriek if he did not heed her wishes, when Petyr's finger pressed down, circling. " _Please_ ," he muttered into her throat, beard scratching up with his smirk. Sansa's mouth had parted into an ' _oh_ ' of shock, too overwhelmed with a strange, tickling  _pleasure_  to continue the adamant refusals of only a moment ago. " _Please_." The girl only nodded, a ragged gasp cutting through the silence when the digit bore down in bold motion.

     Humming lowly, his hand slipped between her thighs, palm a gentle grind on her mound. "Do you see, my lady? _I shall not harm you_." Unthinking, Sansa began to rock forward and back over his hand, bearing down as wildfire shot from her belly to her toes, fingers ever locked about Baelish's wrist. Soft noises, pants and moans and sighs, grew louder as she  _encouraged_  the touch. Like this, no room remained in her thoughts for a murdered king or dwarfish husband, a family scattered and home burned. Only the sweet pressure beyond any of her imaginings. So preoccupied was she that it took the snaking of his other hand from between them, under her neck to clamp over her mouth for the growing approbation to cease.

Despite his earlier warning, however, Petyr seemed little more than amused at the possibility of awakening any other passengers. "My lady, you must be..." Fingers walked down her legs, drawing up a crumpled bedgown until they might steal beneath it to tease over sodden lips. Sansa squirmed, needing him to continue as badly as she was certain he  _had_  to stop. Two digits pressed at her entrance, waiting until she came to rest once more before beginning an aching slide towards her center. " ---  _Quiet_ ," he muttered, even as a deep-throated groan rumbled off his palm. Thumb finding that secret place within auburn curls, Petyr resumed swirling motions without as his fingers curled and pumped within. Sansa's hand worked over and around his wrist, needing faster, needing deeper, and not understanding why. Not  _caring_  why. " _Slowly_." Petyr's arm stiffened, fighting the dictations of her own. "Slowly, sweetling.  _Savor it_."

     The sound that left her was nothing short of despondent, yet it was a testament to her state that Sansa obeyed, clinging to him for steadiness alone as the practiced motions continued. Slowly, however, did not exclude the rhythmic rocking of hips, as though she were  _riding_  him, and Sansa knew this was a beggar's imitation of what husbands did with their wives, that what she foolishly allowed Petyr now had sparked hunger in the gazes of so many others. Dimly, she felt the bulge of his cock rubbing in similar pace against the back of her thigh, but it didn't matter. The pressure was unbearable; all Sansa could understand was the crush of her ribs, the lightness of her brow, the deep, frantic urgency at her center that begged the girl to -----

     " _Come_ ," he demanded with a husky whisper. " _Come for me, Sansa_." The words held no meaning for her, but perhaps all that was required was one, final demand. With a dire groan she felt herself clench about his fingers, holding steady the devilish hand as her pelvis ground down and around, seeking friction, seeking more of those impossibly perfect throbs which threatened to lift her away from it all. Into her neck Petyr chanted his approval, the gag of his palm pulling slender neck back until he could kiss along the line of her pulse, heated and wet. "My girl," he murmured at last as the tremors abated, still moving inside her as another twitching pleasure juddered through Sansa's frame. "My sweet, brave, darling girl." Sansa could not fathom the bravery in her surrender, thinking he had been misheard. No disagreement was raised however, her head merely lolling back as her mouth was released, finger dampened with humid breath raking through tangled auburn.

     They lay together for a long while, well past the slowing of her heart and stilling of his breath. When Petyr's fingers slipped free she supposed he might drag them along her shift or his breeches, for Sansa could feel an embarrassing wetness between her legs. Instead the man took pains to leave them unmolested; behind her, she heard the same muted sounds as when he had cleaned the tacky juice of a fruit from his hands at supper. " _Heavenly_." Feeling herself blush crimson, Sansa tucked her chin and endeavored to hide beneath the edges of the furs. Petyr let her, curling about the maid almost protectively, or perhaps only possessively, one leg draping over hers.

     "Sleep, Sansa." Obediently, blue eyes fell shut, though not all her questions were immediately surrendered to the rising undertow of exhaustion. "Petyr?" The man hummed. "What you did...what  _we_  did..." For her involvement was unmistakable and irrevocable. "Will remain between  _us_ , sweetling, and no others." Quietly amazed he thought her capable, much less inclined, to confide in another as to what had passed between them, Sansa soldiered on. " --- The rest of the voyage," she broached. "For the rest of the voyage..." He chuckled. "It shan't occur again...save for your sweet pleas to the contrary, my lady." No more was said, Petyr resolutely buried at the nape of her neck, Sansa driven to silence not by his smug confidence of a repetition, but the twinge between her thighs that seemed to promise his hopes would indeed come to pass before journey's end.


End file.
